Back to the Bar
by necronisms
Summary: John's "business" day is over and all he wants to do is unwind after having sent one of his ex-lovers to hell. Where better than Oliver's? (Based after the events of C:tH #1 and #2. This may or may not be continued in another section after C:tH #6.)


_**He's sober and he's tired**_ and he wants to finish that drink; he needs a meal, something homey, cosy, familiar. He's late to get in, but he sees the man behind the bar, hulking, quiet, _furiously_ pretending to clean the same glass again, all as John skulks back _that_ seat. The man's wearing the same sad face he had when John left, or was rather escorted out - and Oliver just gives him a glance and a nod.

"Had _fun_ then?" his voice is cold, but John was expecting this. Even having only known the man for a few minutes, but that heart in that broad chest was perhaps any explanation to Oliver's size. _Perhaps he loved too much_ – able to display his children on the wall of his diner, glad to talk about them; glad to put them aside for one possible night of close-talking. Glad to forget the devastation a separation must have given them.

John didn't say a word, cowardly in his own skin around someone so hulking. He'd faced monsters and men alike, stronger, larger, but nothing scared him like these passing moments as he tried to stitch back together a relationship that hadn't yet seen the light of day. A small bud withered in his chest, and John felt his stomach quiver. There was no voice inside him, no strength to pull him through. But before he could open his mouth, Oliver set down a plate of curry and chips, plastic wrap sealing the contents in his place.

For a moment, he put aside his breath, only allowing himself to smile. He met Oliver in an odd, feeble gaze, and the large man shrugs.

"Had no idea if you were gonna come back, but... I figured you'd remember where this place was."

"Hard to forget a guy like you," John muttered, playing coy. His hands were shaking as he reached for the plate. It was exhaustion, he told himself; but this was the man who had made a left on the last corner instead of going right ahead. There was Oliver's. His special. "Even after the day I had, mate."

"You wanna talk about it?" Oliver must have been taking a knee, now level with John. At this angle, he could see the man's tired eyes, weathered by years of parenting. Outlined by a strain of anguish; a divorce, perhaps. Some sort of separation than gave the man enough leeway to proposition other men this late at night.

John opened his mouth, shut it, and then dropped his chin. His fingers were running over every bump and crease in the plastic wrap. the little squeak of skin against cellophane.

"Not… really? Sorta just wanna forget about it for now."

Like that, Oliver stood and left his post. He grabbed his keys and made his way to the door, gesturing for John follow. But John couldn't feel his legs at this point. Having not budged for a moment or few, Oliver let out a grunt and hoisted the little man over his shoulder. Maybe he just wanted him out – but by his own doing. John was limp, hanging there, hands holding the plate of food. One small gesture not a damn soul in **Hell** could rip from was no complaining, he didn't crack wise, even eye-to-eye with the hulking man's arse as he was carried back out into the city.

He didn't talk to himself, or to any spectral that met his eye. They all hung from the earth, stuck there as they were in life. John felt his eyes growing heavy. When he opened them after, what he could have sworn wasn't more than a few seconds, they were in an entirely new part of town. Thunder rumbled above, or below, he couldn't make much sense of this. When he was turned right side up, the world was quiet. There was a click and quivering of an air vent, muffled breaths of clothing being removed.

 _Was this it? Was he even going to remember?After tonight, was he just going to exist on a plane… wherever he was?_

"Let go," he heard Oliver say, finally tearing the plate of food from him. Everything had remained intact, he saw, from where he sat teetering. "You refused to make a damn sound, so I just brought you to my place... John?"

He was already gazing around. There were several pictures, ones he wished he recognized from the diner. There was a separation of work and home here, thick in the air. No mothers or fathers, no wives; only children, only babies, only memories. He knew what this was like, and forced a smile followed by an odd jumble of sounds. Then, heavy, he fell back to find himself on the bed, cool sheets greeting his bare back that had broken a light sweat. Oliver towered above him, but made no… indication of ownership. John had been in worse scraps, but sex was the last thing on his mind after that evening. Surprising, as he reached a cold hand up.

Oliver was above, and then away, the bed shifting with his impossible weight. John was dragged up like a rag doll, propped against pillows that he simply sank into. The lights may have been out, but he could see Oliver poised there perfectly; his back was to John as he pulled off his own shirt, took off his jeans, simply - changed into whatever he called pajamas and sat back down. He didn't seem to look at the smaller man in his bed as he got into the bed himself. Figured as much; men did their good deeds and went on their way.

This was – familiar. A sense of _déjà vu_ that no man with less sober years on him than a frat boy would comprehend. He reached out the same hand to touch the arc of oliver's back. It followed defined muscles to his shoulder, where John gave a weak squeeze. A large hand met his, where it rested, briefly, before falling away.

That was where John Constantine remained for a good while, on a plane of absurdness, filled with another man's utter compassion for his sorry ass. no thoughts running through his head. He wasn't surely blessed by silence. There was noise, whispers of discontent. He was afraid for himself for the first time in so long. Life caught up to him, no matter how many times he turned in his two weeks notice to Satan himself. His life would catch up, run him down; but these simple gestures, albeit rare as sun dogs, filled his hollow heart with something next to near - human.

John pulled himself across the space between their bodies, confining his aching bones to the warmth a near stranger provided. He was a stray cat in a box with a bear, but he had been allowed to seat himself. He could just about drape his arm over the man's large body; he could just about pretend he was home for the first time.


End file.
